


Calling You

by sephirothflame



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Crossover, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sephirothflame/pseuds/sephirothflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has a moment of weakness. It's hard to do his job when he misses Phil and Natasha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phone Call

**Author's Note:**

> Because Clint is obviously Brandt.

Clint toys with the tie around his neck and waits for the phone to pick up. The dark silk is smooth under his fingers, but it does little to comfort him now. Clint hates ties. He wouldn’t be wearing one if he didn’t have to. The only reason he’s let himself be bullied into wearing one for so long as is is that he’d nicked it out of Phil’s drawer when he wasn’t looking. 

Idly, Clint wonders if Phil’s noticed the tie’s absence and if he even wants it back. He probably does. Phil always gets a look on his face when Clint and Natasha appropriate his belongings without permission. 

(Clint doesn’t let himself think about the way Phil looks at Natasha when she’s in one of his button downs, sleeves rolled up past her elbows and her long legs left bare and soft to the touch. He can’t afford to.) 

The phone stops ringing in Clint’s ear, and for a moment, he’s hopeful. His breath catches in his throat and he can feel his relief of washing over him. Only, he’s greeted with an automated “ _You have reached the voicemail of Phil Coulson. Please leave a message after the beep_ ” and Clint can feel his heart sinking in his chest. 

Licking his lips, Clint says, “hey,” into the phone anyways. “Just checking in. Everything’s fine, so don’t worry. Just...” There isn’t an easy way to say _I miss you_ or _I want to come home now_. Clint knew what he was getting into when he accepted this job, it isn’t fair to Phil if he bitches about it now. 

Taking this job, becoming William Brandt, hasn’t been easy for any of them. Clint isn’t the only one suffering right now, even if it feels like it. He could take comfort in the fact Natasha is probably on a job somewhere too, but the feeling never comes. 

Clint presses the heel of one hand against his eye and sighs heavily. He should be saying something, anything, but nothing comes to mind. He’s too used to relying on Phil to guide their conversations along and speak the words Clint is incapable of saying for him. “When I get back, we gotta go get pizza. I miss real food. And I swear the sand is never going to come out of my boots.” 

Even mindless small talk is hard. It’s amazing Clint has ever had any sort of traction anywhere when it involved talking to other people. Or maybe it’s just the ones that matter that make Clint’s tongue get twisted in knots. 

It doesn’t stop Clint from wanting to ramble, but he’s cut off by the sound of the other line picking up and Natasha’s familiar voice. 

“Clint,” she says. She sounds concerned, but it’s one of those things that Clint only realizes because he’s put his life in her hands countless times for years now. He knows she’s worried like she knows he’s going to fall apart if he stays here for much longer. 

“Tashi,” Clint says. He doesn’t know if he’s grateful for the sound of her voice to interrupt his message or if it just makes it harder. “What are you - ?” 

Clint doesn’t get to finish asking. There’s a sharp rap on the wooden door in the dilapidated safe house, more out of warning than actual courtesy, before Ethan pushes it open enough to look into the room. “It’s time.” 

“I gotta go,” Clint says. He means _I love you_ and _take care of Phil_ and _stay safe_ and he can only hope she understands all of that before he hangs up the phone with a sharp snap without giving her the chance to reply. 

Ethan watches Clint with mild curiosity as he crosses the room, “who was that?” 

“No one that matters,” Clint lies, because it’s easier. Brandt isn’t supposed to have any family, because Clint always prefers aliases without families, but it doesn’t take away the sting from missing Natasha and Phil. “Just a friend back home.” 

Ethan looks like maybe he doesn’t believe Clint, but he lets it slide. He steps out of the way to let Clint through the door and gestures vaguely in the direction of the rest of the team. Conversation dropped, they’re moving on. Clint can appreciate that about Ethan. 

At least the downtime is over, and Clint has no choice but to slip back into the role of Brandt.


	2. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint finally comes home, but it's hard to slip out of the skin of William Brandt and back into his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently re-watching _Ghost Protocol_ means I have to write more Clint-is-Brandt fic.

The only thing Clint can think about on the way home is how much he wants a goddamn shower. He’d taken one in Seattle, sure, but he can still feel the grit of sand under his nails and in his hair. Clint knows from experience that it’ll take more than a quick wash to get himself clean of it all.

 

He doesn’t let himself think about Phil or Natasha. It’s hard, knowing he’s so close, but all he allows himself is a quick call to Natasha to tell her he was on his way home. Clint’s not a puppy, he isn’t lovesick. He just knows that if he dwells that the feeling of homesickness will intensify until he’s physically ill with it.

 

Clint never used to have this problem. He’s never had a _home_ before, somewhere to go with people he cared about. It makes him weak, maybe, but he’s been gone too long to even care.

 

Natasha is the only one in the apartment when Clint finally shows up, stumbling home from a redeye flight and quietly hating everything. She’s on the couch, oversized coffee mug that Tony got Phil in her hands, feet on the coffee table. The red shirt she stole from Clint’s closet is too big for her, but she smiles when she sees him and for a moment Clint forgets he wanted anything at all.

 

“Hey,” he says eventually, dropping his bag on the floor. He toes off his shoes and shrugs off his suit coat. The actions are mechanical, driving him forward when he wants to do nothing but collapse on the couch next to Natasha and get lost in the warmth of her body. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”

 

“Want me to join you?” Natasha isn’t offended that he needs to shed his skin before he can curl up with her. She’s gone deep undercover, she knows how it feels to need to find yourself again. “Phil just left, but I’m sure – “

 

“Maybe for lunch,” Clint cuts her off. He looks away when Natasha quirks an eyebrow, assessing him carefully. “I’ve still got to go to HQ to debrief anyways.” The knot on his tie refuses to come undone, and Clint battles with it tiredly. “Give me ten minutes?”

 

Natasha just nods and takes a sip of her coffee. She watches Clint when he heads for the bedroom, stripping as he goes, but she doesn’t say a word. Clint can feel her eyes on him and that’s just as telling as any comment could ever be. It’s Natasha. Clint knows her.

 

Clint knows this place. He stops on his way to the bathroom long enough to take in the unmade bed ( _Phil got up first, Natasha wanted to sleep in_ ), a dog eared paperback on the left nightstand ( _Phil’s not sleeping_ ), and Natasha’s jeans folded on top of the dresser ( _no sex, not last night anyways, and Clint finds a strange relief in that_ ). It’s hard to resist the urge to curl up in the bed – _their­_ bed – and he can’t look away from it.

 

He’s naked by the time he reaches the bathroom, most of his clothes abandoned on the bedroom floor and he makes a mental note to pick them up later. Phil hates when Clint leaves his things lying around.

 

The blue tile in the bathroom is cold to the touch, but Clint doesn’t mind. He turns the shower on and lets the water heat up before he steps under the spray, brushing his teeth while he waits. He debates shaving but decides against it. His skin feels dry where he touches himself and the sand is dark under his nails.

 

For a few moments, Clint lets himself forget. Nothing matters except the warm spray of water from the double headed shower nozzle, soft against his scalp and neck and harder against his back. He doesn’t let himself think about Phil, knowing he showered last from the settings in the shower. Clint doesn’t want to think about anything; not Phil, not Natasha, not SHIELD or IMF and definitely not William Brandt.

 

Right now, Clint doesn’t want to think about anything at all. He wills his mind to be a complete blank as he lathers Natasha’s strawberry shampoo in his hair and scrubs his skin clean until he turns red. He can still feel the grit of the sand though, so he waits until the water washes away clean and he starts the process over again. Rinse, lather, repeat. More literal then the commercials ever meant, maybe, but it’s what Clint needs.

 

Clint knows when the bathroom door opens, the heat billowing out into the bedroom, but he makes no moves to acknowledge Natasha. Her voice is soft, even over the sound of the shower and bathroom fan, and Clint has to strain to hear her.

 

“You plan on leaving any hot water?”

 

“No,” Clint says. He stops rubbing the loofah against his shoulder and looks over at her. The invitation in her words is obvious, and Clint considers her for a moment. He’s already scrubbed his skin raw and he’s as clean as he’ll ever get. Clint debates the odds of just turning off the water but decides against it. It’s Natasha. She won’t hurt him. “But if you want to conserve water for science or whatever, you could join me.”

 

The joke falls flat but Natasha smiles anyways. She tugs Clint’s shirt over her head in a smooth, flawless gesture and lets it fall to the floor.  She hooks her thumbs in her panties, pushing them down her thighs slowly, and Clint tries to make himself want this. This is Natasha, who is beautiful and perfect and knows Clint inside and out.

 

She doesn’t touch Clint when she joins him in the shower, sliding the Plexiglas door shut behind her. Natasha steps closer, mindful of Clint, to adjust the shower spray. The water beats down harder against Clint’s shoulders, but he finds that he really doesn’t mind.

 

“You need a haircut, Barton,” Natasha says. She touches the side of his neck gently, a barely there press of her fingers, waiting for Clint to shy away or nod before she presses harder, lays her hand flat on his skin. Her nails scrape along the nape of his neck, snagging against the too long hairs there.

 

Clint smiles weakly. He touches her hips, urging her closer to him until they can press their foreheads together. “Finding a barber was the least of my concerns.” Clint doesn’t mind the teasing or the soft touches. After spending so much time as William Brandt, this is nice to come home to. Clint has missed it.

 

For the longest time, they don’t do anything. It’s just Natasha’s hand on Clint’s neck, his bicep, his hands on her hips and their foreheads pressed together. The heat of the shower and Natasha’s body, the soft sound of her breathing – this has done more for Clint’s wellbeing then any hurried phone call could ever hope for.

 

It’s easy for Clint to lose himself in this, nothing to distract him and the feeling of safety, despite his vulnerability. Natasha has always had that effect on Clint and so has Phil. This is why Clint belongs here, why this is his home.

 

When the water starts to run cold, Clint turns around to turn it off. He cards his fingers through Natasha’s wet hair and smiles when she quirks an eyebrow at him. “Is there any coffee left, or did you and Phil drink it all?”

 

“I bet Phil has some in his office,” Natasha says. She doesn’t look at Clint when she steps out of the shower to towel off, and Clint is grateful for her words. She’s giving him an out, a chance to shed the skin of William Brandt on his own time.

 

Clint holds out an arm and gestures for her to throw him a fluffy towel. He wipes his face and his hair while he considers her offer, but he doesn’t consider it hiding. Not from Natasha. “Sure,” Clint says at last. He wraps the towel around his waist with a loose knot and watches Natasha abandon hers on the floor as she heads into the bedroom.

 

There’s an invitation in that that Clint has no desire to refuse. He thinks of Phil in his office, filing reports and drinking coffee, and Clint almost feels a little guilty. Even if they don’t have sex, Clint can’t resist the desire to curl around Natasha and get lost under the heavy weight of their blankets, if only for a few minutes.

 

Clint is home and he’s safe, and Natasha is safe, and Phil is safe. Everything is fine, the world didn’t end while he was gone (despite the fact it damn well could have if _Brandt_ and Hunt and the others weren’t so damn lucky). For a few minutes, the rest of the world can wait.

 

 


End file.
